


The Things I Want To Remember [You By]

by GraphiteFox



Series: Red Rover [7]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3976543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteFox/pseuds/GraphiteFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin can stand almost anything (and when you’re dating Harry Hart, being impervious is sort of required), but being sick tends to wear on his nerves.  Lucky for him, Harry knows how to make him feel better.  Sort of.  Young Harlin & Modern Harlin.</p>
<p>The last Red Rover. :D/:(</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things I Want To Remember [You By]

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Keane’s “Love Is The End.”

The Things I Want to Remember [You By]

 

**Then:**

 

                Merlin stops outside the infirmary, anticipating a sneeze. Today’s been a bit of a mess and to add to his frustration, he’s caught a cold. It’s the least of his worries right now. Harry’s injuries are taking up most of the space in Merlin’s brain and until he’s checked on his agent, he’s not going to get anything else done.

                Gaheris snickered when he told Merlin what had happened, so it can’t be that bad. Even _he_ doesn’t hate Harry that much. But Harry’s utter impossibility when it comes to working with any other handler is becoming dangerous, and Merlin plans on setting him straight this time.

                The pressure in his sinuses dissipates and Merlin pushes open the infirmary door, wearing his best judgmental expression.

                Harry is seated on the exam bench while Morgan runs through some perception tests. He follows her finger obediently, then catches sight of Merlin and stops long enough to smile at him. There’s a large plaster on his chin and he’s favoring his right arm. His suit is stained white along one side.

                “I don’t see any sign of a concussion,” Morgan says, her voice a bit dry, suggesting Harry’s been giving her a hard time. “I’ll get a sling for your arm.” She nods briefly at Merlin before disappearing into the store room.

                Harry beams. “Have you come to check on me? I’m flattered.”

                “I’ve come to scold you,” Merlin corrects, “for being an idiot.”

                “Excuse you. That was a highly successful mission.”

                “Including you falling down a flight of stairs?”

                “Half a flight,” Harry corrects. He ducks his head to the side. “I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

                “Three-fourths of a flight. I’ve seen the footage.”

                “Well, I was distracted. Heavily-armed guards after me and all.”

                Merlin presses his handkerchief to his nose for a moment. He can _feel_ the encroaching stuffiness and it’s not doing anything for his mood. “There were no guards after you, you’d killed them all. You fell because you were arguing with Gaheris.”

                At the mention of the other handler, Harry scowls. “You know he laughed at me? I was lying dazed in the stairwell and he was in my ear laughing away.”

                “Because you called him ‘a nerdy prick’ and then ate concrete.”

                “He _is_ a nerdy prick,” Harry insists.

                “Then what does that make me?” asks Merlin, with raised eyebrows.

                Harry affects an innocent expression. “Someone I greatly respect and admire?”

                Merlin sighs. “Harry, you have to learn to work with other handlers in the event that I’m indisposed.”

                “Why _were_ you ‘indisposed’ today anyway?” asks Harry.

                Thankfully, Morgan returns, holding the sling and a bottle of painkillers. “All right, let’s get your arm secured. God knows what you’ll do to it otherwise.”

                “I was actually planning on keeping it on this time,” Harry says. Merlin wonders how many times Morgan’s had to deal with Harry’s stupidity.

                “It must actually hurt if you’re being responsible,” she remarks.

                Merlin snorts, or tries to, and ends up coughing wetly instead. Harry narrows his eyes.

                “Why do you sound so strange?”

                “Someone used my station. Someone sick.” He doesn’t tell Harry that it was Gaheris who left his germs for Merlin to pick up because that would just give Harry more ammunition. It was an accident anyway. If the other handler was going to deliberately sicken someone, he’d break into Harry’s flat to cough on everything.

                “How have you not created a cure for colds yet?” Harry asks Morgan, who leans over him to secure the sling. “Also, jasmine?”

                “Gardenia,” she corrects, giving the sling an extra tug that makes Harry flinch. “How am I supposed to accomplish anything with you and Gawain in here all the time for idiotic reasons? There.” She leans back, and hands him the medicine bottle. “You’re out for the rest of the week, Galahad. Don’t have too much fun with the Vicodin.”

                “Vicodin for a sprained arm?” asks Merlin.

                “And the bruised ribs,” she adds, and this time Harry looks a bit embarrassed.

                “Those were from the fighting, not the fall.”

                “Right.” Morgan spins her stool so she can survey Merlin. “You may as well go home, too.”

                He blinks back at her. “I’m fine.”

                “You’re sick. No one here wants your cold. Besides, then you can keep an eye on Mr. Dignity-and-Grace over here.”

                “I thought you said he didn’t have a concussion.”

                She raises her shoulders a tiny bit. “It’s hard to tell with Galahad.”

               “Galahad doesn’t particularly enjoy being talked about in third person,” Harry says.

               “Galahad just likes being talked about,” Merlin retorts, then turns away to sneeze. The force of it nearly staggers him, and he fights the urge to groan. “There’s too much to do,” he protests, when Morgan raises her brows.

               Harry slides off the bench and grabs Merlin’s arm. “Doctor’s orders, time to go.”

              “But I should inform Arthur…”

              Morgan is pulling her lips flat to keep from smiling. “I’ll let him know. He can’t argue with me.”

             “Does that make you the most powerful member of Kingsman?” Harry asks, releasing Merlin long enough to open the door.

             She does smile now, raising a finger to her lips.

 

+

 

                “Morgan probably _is_ the most powerful member of Kingsman,” Merlin muses, when they’re safely ensconced on the private subway, heading for London.

                “Really?” Harry asks, and this time there’s no teasing note in his voice. “I’ve always thought it was you.”

 

+

 

                By the time they make it to Harry’s place, Merlin is feeling disoriented and keenly miserable. Harry side-eyes him as he takes the decorative tissue holder and lies down on the sofa, holding it to his chest. Mr. Pickle scampers downstairs, unsure of whom to bathe in affection first, and turns around twice before running to Harry.

                “I’m beginning to regret bringing the plague home.”

                Merlin responds by sneezing wetly, then groaning. “I don’t have the energy to move again. I’ll stay on your sofa.”

                “You’ll stay in my bed, but the sofa’s fine for now. Any chance you can take off your shoes?”

                Merlin tries to edge them off, pressing the toe of one shoe against the heel of the other. But he pulls his laces too tightly and he doesn’t want to wreck the leather, so he just hangs his feet off the edge of the cushion. “No.”

                Harry comes around, tugging at the laces with his good hand, working one shoe off, then the other. Mr. Pickle jumps up on the sofa, sniffing at Merlin’s socks.

                “I thought you trained him not to do that.”

                “I trained him not to jump on _other_ people’s sofas.”

                “And yet I have to take off my shoes.”

                Harry smiles and pats his leg. “For your comfort, my dear.”

                “Call me ‘dear’ again and I’ll stab you.”

                “What endearments _am_ I allowed?”

                “Merlin.”

                Harry rolls his eyes and tucks Mr. Pickle under his arm, then, realizing he only has the one at the moment, gently sets the dog down on the carpet. The motion jostles his sore ribs, and he sucks in a quick breath, rising stiffly.               

                “I’m supposed to be helping you,” Merlin says, most of it muffled by the swath of tissues he’s got pressed to his face.

                “We’ll help each other. It is rotten luck, though. We have time off together but neither of us can actually enjoy it.”

                Merlin knows all too well that there is something decidedly unattractive about a partner who can’t stop his nose from leaking. Even when they win, they lose.

                “You don’t seem— _achoo_!—too miserable.”

                “Comparatively, no. Also I have painkillers,” he states with a grin.

                “Well I have a sore throat,” Merlin grumbles back, sinking lower into the sofa. Harry disappears down the hallway, then returns holding a monstrous amount of fabric. It’s a quilt, each section a mish-mash of loud colors and patterns. It’s horrible to look at, and even more horrible is that Harry is awkwardly draping it over him. “Before I comment, is this a gift from a beloved grandmother or aunt?”

                Harry chuckles, but doesn’t answer his question. Instead, he tucks the quilt in around Merlin’s body the best he can with one arm. “Shut up and just relax.”

                Merlin closes his eyes, resigned to his misery. At least he’s not fighting off chills yet. He’s got a fever but it’s keeping him pleasantly warm for the moment and if he could just breathe, it wouldn’t be quite so bad. He starts to doze, but the sound of porcelain rattling and cabinets shutting keeps rousing him.

                “It sounds like you’re making a mess.”

                “I’m short a hand right now,” Harry responds, coupled with a loud clatter. “You’re welcome to make your own tea if it pleases you.”

                “I didn’t ask for tea,” Merlin protests. _Sleep,_ he thinks. _All I want is some sleep._

He’s not going to get it though, not until Harry is satisfied with having at least attempted to mother him. Merlin staggers to his feet, ignoring the swaying in his head, and pads into the kitchen. There’s loose tea scattered across the counter; Harry is trying to fill the strainer unsuccessfully with a teaspoon. He glances up and frowns. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

                “No one can rest through that noise.” He gets the strainer filled and sweeps the mess into the bin. The kettle is just starting to steam, so they lean against opposite counters to wait. Mr. Pickle flops down on the kitchen rug and watches them with his dark wet eyes.

There are open shelves separating the kitchen from the dining room; Harry is steadily filling them with objects. Every time Merlin visits, there are more knick-knacks in various places. His own flat is fairly sparse in comparison.

                “Why do you have three teapots?”

                “They’re for display,” Harry explains, as though it’s obvious.

                “That’s foolish.”

                “I didn’t quite catch that, say it again?”

                “That—“ Merlin stops and glares at him. “You just want me to talk because I sound ridiculous right now.”

                “Indeed.”

                “I hate you.”

                “You don’t.” Harry comes over to kiss Merlin’s forehead, then grimaces. “You are really hot. I mean that temperature-wise this time.”

                “I know what you meant,” Merlin replies shortly. “Do you have any paracetemol?”

                Harry offers him the bottle and Merlin opens it, as well as Harry’s Vicodin. The kettle starts whistling and Merlin pours the water into their cups, unwilling to let Harry anywhere near boiling water right now. When he glances back, Harry is playing with the strap to his sling.

                “Stop that.”

                “It hurts. Morgan made it too tight.”

                “I doubt that,” says Merlin, but he loosens it anyway. “Better?”

                “Better.” Harry’s expression brightens suddenly. “Did you get your souvenir? I left it on your desk.”

                Merlin shakes his head as he picks up his teacup. “I went straight to see you.”

                It started with a mission in Paris, the first of their missions as agent and handler. Harry had diffused a bomb that would have taken out most of the Parisian Senate and returned with the president’s engraved cigarette case. He’d refused to tell Merlin whether he’d stolen it or it had been a gift; more frustrating was that none of the footage showed Harry acquiring the case.

                Neither of them had a use for it (Harry had indeed quit smoking after their mission in Morocco), so Merlin put it in a drawer and didn’t think on it again. Until a week later when Harry brought him a pocket mirror taken from a Mafioso in Sicily. This was followed by a key to the National Diet Building in Japan, an escudo from a Spanish shipwreck exhibit, and, Merlin’s personal favorite, a stapler from the Pentagon. All the souvenirs were acquired without Merlin’s awareness and it had become a challenge for him to try and spot Harry grabbing them.

                He’s fast running out of space in his desk drawer. He hopes that whatever Harry has brought him this time is small.

                “You fell down a flight of stairs and you still remembered my souvenir.”

                “Well, these are mine,” Harry responds, gesturing to his injuries. “Besides, I’d already grabbed it by then.”

                Which means Merlin’s already missed it on the footage. “I’ll look at it tomorrow then.”

                “That’s ambitious. You’re going to feel even worse tomorrow.”

                He’s right, of course, and Merlin isn’t looking forward to it. Gaheris will pick up the slack, and he’s always very thorough, so there’s not much to worry about beyond that nagging feeling Merlin gets when he’s not doing anything productive. Colds mean a lot of lying in bed watching crap telly and praying for the misery to end. When he was a child, his mum came up with simple games and stories to distract him. As an adult, he’s forced to distract himself. Harry helps.

                The tea has soothed his throat, but Merlin is still feeling exhausted. His skin feels clammy and his muscles ache. He must look as bad as he feels, because Harry gives him a sympathetic smile.

                “Come on. You should rest.”

                Merlin follows him back into the living room, Mr. Pickle close behind. Harry sits on the far end of the sofa, then pats his lap. “Lie down.”

                “I’m not a child.”

                Harry says nothing, just waits. It’s tempting to be stubborn, but it’s more tempting to lie down so Merlin concedes, tucking his feet on the opposite end of the sofa and resting his head in Harry’s lap. He pulls the ugly quilt up and Harry tucks it tighter around him.

                Mr. Pickle jumps up and nestles in the curve of Merlin’s body.

                It’s so perfectly domestic Merlin thinks he might vomit. He waits for the teasing, but Harry relaxes beneath him, splaying a book open on the arm of the couch. _This is nice._ The thought pops into his head, startling him.

                They’re still new, he and Harry. Still getting to know each other, though they’re both fast learners. And while Merlin’s been in relationships before this one, they’ve never been like this. He’s never warmed so quickly to anyone in his life. Occasionally he catches Harry watching him with this befuddled expression, a mix of joy and confusion that suggests he feels the same.

                It’s both safety and a horrifying weight at the same time. What happens when they fight for the first time? What happens when they split up? Will it be mutual? Will it be ugly? Will they avoid each other in the hallways, their only conversations on either side of the transmission feed? Will it be a product of necessity, thus leaving them to trade sad smiles that linger, full of meaning but with zero promise?

                Merlin shivers violently and Harry glances down at him.

                “Can I get you anything? Soup, maybe?”

                “I’m fine.”

                “Is there a special soup your mother makes you when you’re sick? Should I call her to get the recipe?” he presses. When Merlin doesn’t respond, he asks, “Do you even have a mum?”

                “I wasn’t made from dust,” Merlin snaps. His head feels heavy with his thoughts and congestion.

                “I’d believe almost anything about you, but that’s mostly because you never tell me anything. I _am_ your boyfriend, right?”

                “At the moment.”

                “Oh, _that’s_ encouraging.”

                “We don’t even know if we’ll stay together,” Merlin mumbles. Part of him wants to go home, but that would require more energy than he has. And moving will let all the heat out of the quilt.

                “We will,” Harry says promptly.

                “You don’t know that.”

                “I do, but fine. What makes you think we won’t?”

                Merlin’s not in the right frame of mind to have a clear argument. “Probability, statistics…”

                “So romantic,” Harry teases, smoothing Merlin’s hair.

                “Stop that,” he orders. He hates when Harry touches his hair. It’s thin enough already and soon he’s going to start losing it altogether, like his uncle did. Bald before thirty is what Merlin has to look forward to. He wonders how polite Harry will be about it.

                “You get incredibly grumpy when you’re sick, don’t you?” Harry asks, sounding amused.

                Merlin figures it’s probably rhetorical and closes his eyes, mentally counting the seconds before Harry starts talking again. He doesn’t though, just reaches over occasionally to turn the page of his book.

                Merlin can’t remember the last time he was so warm and comfortable. Mr. Pickle snorts sleepily and rolls over, stretching out his little paws. It makes Merlin think of his German Shepherd, Gwen, who lives with his mum up in Scotland. She’s got some land to run around on and she keeps his mother company, so he doesn’t often regret parting with her. If it wasn’t for Harry, he’d probably miss her more.

                He shivers again. The paracetemol isn’t really helping. He wonders if Harry has another hideous quilt. For all its tackiness, it’s soft and comforting.

                “Can I keep this quilt?” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

                “Not if you break up with me,” Harry responds easily.

                Merlin sighs. “You’re going to hold that against me, aren’t you?”

                “No. I think you’re just worried. You think that getting too personal is going to make it that much worse if something goes wrong, but there’s a huge flaw in your reasoning. You’re presuming that something will go wrong.”

                “It’s a legitimate worry, Harry. Do you think we’ll never have a serious argument? What if you go on a mission and don’t come back?”

                Harry snorts, still looking at his book. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll always come back.”

                Merlin huffs. “You arrogant bastard. You can’t promise that.”

                “It hurts that my own handler doesn’t have absolute faith in my abilities. I can promise it and I do promise it. Problem solved.”

                “Just because you say ‘problem solved’ does not mean you’ve actually solved the problem.”

                “Now you’re never getting the quilt.”

                He doesn’t want to argue, not really, but being sick has made him petulant. He’s aware enough to realize that Harry has refused to bite, and has instead chosen to diffuse the tension with humor, like always. Harry being the responsible one _annoys_ Merlin, but he tamps down his frustration.

                “I have a mother,” Merlin mumbles. A small concession. “You’d like her.”  
                “Ah,” Harry says, and he sounds pleased. “She’s like you, then?”

                “Not at all.”

                Before Harry can ask more questions, he adds, “I’m exhausted. Shut up so I can sleep.”

                He can practically _feel_ Harry restraining himself. He starts counting seconds again. _One. Two. Thr--_

                “What are the chances you’d be willing to move upstairs?”

                He’s still mad about Harry’s arrogant promise. Besides, Harry can deal with discomfort for a little longer—he’s got the painkillers, after all. “Zero.”

                Harry chuckles. “Thought so.”

 

**Now:**

 

                Merlin knocks once, then marches into Harry’s office. “Did you let Eggsy into the lab?”

                Harry pauses and the brief flicker of panic tells Merlin all he needs to know. “I honestly can’t remember.”

                “Okay,” Merlin says, careful to keep his voice calm. “Do you remember how the boy was leaking snot and sneezing on everything and I specifically said ‘keep him the hell away from my lab while I’m gone’?”

                “That sounds like something that may have happened,” Harry replies evasively. “Does this have anything to do with why you sound congested?”

                “48 hours, Harry! I’ve been back 48 hours and I’ve caught your protégé’s plague! And I _know_ he was in the lab because I checked the footage.”

                “Oh dear,” says Harry, but he’s smiling. “Shall I take you home?”

                “I’m more than capable of taking myself home,” Merlin snaps, the growing congestion in his sinuses making him sound more like an indignant boy than he’d like. “But _you_ can pick up some cold medicine.”

                “And that Vietnamese soup you like?” Harry calls after him.

                “Yes!” he shouts back, before not quite slamming the office door behind him.

+

 

                Merlin is well into the fever and chills stage by the time Harry gets home.

                “You didn’t tell me you were coming here. I thought you’d be at yours.” He places his palm on Merlin’s forehead and flinches.

                “This way you can’t be rid of me,” Merlin replies, yanking the blankets closer around him. He’s emptied out the linen closet and is buried under a mess of fabric.

                “Firstly, I wouldn’t let you suffer alone. Secondly, we both know it’s because my blankets are better.”

                Harry’s spare blankets consist of three enormous quilts, which could have been made by an aunt, or a grandma, or Harry himself for all Merlin knows. Harry’s never told him. They fit well with the rest of the decor, meaning they are painfully ugly and mismatched, and Merlin _loves_ them. They’re warm and heavy and soft, everything a good blanket should be. They’re one of the only good things about being sick and he and Harry have both joked that the quilts are the only reason they’ve stayed together so long.

                Merlin’s got them all piled up in a small floral mountain and he’s still shivering. “Soup?” he asks hopefully.

                Harry holds up a bag in response, then heads into the kitchen. Merlin hears Harry moving about, but only because he’s listening. The clink of a spoon, the heavier clank of a bowl touching the counter. Over the years of taking care of a sick Merlin, Harry has learned to be slower, quieter. It doesn’t matter. Merlin just lies still and listens now.

It’s strange, Merlin thinks. He knows his mum took care of him when he was a child. She told him stories and stroked his hair and fed him broth. But if he had to choose between being cared for by Harry or his mum, he’d choose Harry. After nearly thirty years of fighting off colds in Harry’s company, the agent has become his default.

                “Sit up,” Harry orders, carrying over a tray.

                “Letting me eat in the living room, how decadent.”

                “Concessions are made for sick people.”

                He can’t really taste the soup, but he remembers the flavor and enjoys it still. When he’s done, he pulls his legs up on the sofa; Harry raises his arm so that Merlin can tuck himself under it.

                “Remember the first time we did this?”

                “It was a little different,” Merlin says. “For one, you were broken.”

                “You were just as unbearable though,” Harry jokes. “In fact, you’re usually unbearable.”

                Merlin reaches under Harry’s knee and pinches him. Harry yelps.

                “Do that again and I’ll leave you here.”

                “You won’t,” says Merlin, shifting until he finds the perfect spot between Harry’s hipbone and thigh.

                “I might.”

                “You won’t.”

                Harry flips a book open on the arm of the couch. Merlin starts to doze. After a few minutes, he realizes that Harry hasn’t turned the page. He’s staring at the book, but his eyes aren’t moving.

                “What are you thinking about?”

                Harry starts, then glances down. “Gaheris, actually.”

                The name sends a stab of pain through Merlin’s chest that eases just as quickly. “Oh?”

                “I was thinking how the little bastard actually won. I miss him.”

                Merlin laughs at this, a short laugh that turns into a cough. When he’s caught his breath, he says, “If there’s an afterlife of some kind, Gaheris ought to be pretty fucking chuffed right now.”

                “If there’s an afterlife, I’d better end up far away from him. I don’t miss him enough to have to deal with him being smug for eternity.”

                “I’m sure he feels similarly.”

                “He was ridiculously overprotective of you,” Harry muses.          

                “That was his nature. He was protective of you, too, just never to your face.” Harry stares down at him, incredulous. “I mean it. Gaheris didn’t like a lot of people, but Gawain, myself, and even you—he’d get defensive in an instant if he thought someone was insulting us.”

                “Well,” Harry says after a moment. “Well.”

                “You’re not the only one who’s ‘clever but oblivious.’”

                Harry chuckles. “And here I assumed he was just jealous that Gawain never brought _him_ gifts.”

                Merlin frowns for a moment, thinking. “Ah! The souvenirs. I completely forgot about the things you used to bring back from missions.” He still has them all, tucked in boxes in his closet.

                “They were meant to confuse you at first, but then it became fun.”

                “You stopped bringing me things at some point.”

                “I didn’t stop bringing them, I just stopped giving them to you.”

                Merlin stares up at him and Harry grins. “I’ve got an entire box of souvenirs for you. Every mission from 2000 onward. You had started complaining about storing them so I kept them instead, all neatly wrapped up.”

                Merlin attempts to sit up, but Harry gently holds him in place. “I want to see this box.”

                “When you’re better,” Harry promises. “I want you to be able to fully appreciate everything.”

                “You’ve had a lot of missions since 2000. How is it only one box?”

                “It’s a very _large_ box.”

                “How large?”

                Harry pauses, then says, “You know the decorative storage bench at the foot of my bed?”

                Merlin starts laughing and can’t stop himself. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s sat on that bench for years, pulling on socks, with no idea that it contained so many memories. If Harry hadn’t come back, if he’d actually died, would Merlin have even figured out what the items meant? Or would he have just dismissed them as so much junk, like everything else?

                Harry waits for him to settle down. “That was more dramatic than I anticipated.”

                “If you want dramatic,” Merlin says, coughing a bit, “the day you came back, when I was packing up all of your things, I was thinking to myself that I didn’t have anything properly special to remember you by. I have hundreds of fucking things. How could I forget the souvenirs?”

                “You’ve had a lot on your mind,” Harry replies kindly.

                “Still,” Merlin breathes. “I can’t believe you did that, Harry. Every goddamn mission.”

                “All but one.”

                “What do you mean?”

                Harry’s expression is even, but Merlin can see the brief shift in his eyes. “My last mission was the church, and as you know, I wasn’t exactly in a frame of mind to remember to bring back something.”

                Merlin still hasn’t forgotten what it felt like when the feed died. He’d been prepared for a lot of things, but never an execution. He remembers those weeks afterwards, fumbling through each day feeling like his entire body was a gaping wound. He remembers Harry in the living room, the figurines, his anger, but most of all his relief, so overwhelming it was like suffocating.

                “You did,” Merlin murmurs, taking Harry’s hand and interlacing their fingers. He presses a kiss against warm skin and Harry smiles.

                “A promise is a promise.”

                “Fine, have your moment of smugness.” Merlin closes his eyes, a little overwhelmed and a lot worn out. Sometimes it’s irritating how Harry is usually right; tonight, Merlin’s glad of it.

                Harry’s voice is soft. “Do you want to move upstairs?”

                “Just a few more minutes here,” Merlin says, his eyes still shut. He’s going to fall asleep on this sofa, with his head in Harry’s lap. Eventually, Harry will doze off, and wake to complain about stiff joints, and Merlin will ignore him because concessions are made for sick people. That’s how it goes every time.

                He’s already asleep when Harry responds.

                “As long as you’d like.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, it took like two weeks to unwrap all the souvenirs and listen to Harry’s stories about them. And no, Merlin couldn’t remember seeing any of them in footage. :D
> 
> I imagine Merlin’s mom as a really hyperactive historian who filled their house with books and maps and trinkets while he was growing up, which is why he can tolerate Harry’s enthusiasm and collecting (and also why he’s slightly grumpy about it, like “fuck not again”). She sometimes calls Merlin when he’s working to tell him some really obscure story from Scottish history (which he’s probably already heard 1,000 times throughout his life but he listens anyway because he loves her) and he’s had to pick her up from police stations on multiple occasions for trespassing at historical/dig sites even though she’s in her 70s now.  
>  “I pretended to be senile but they didn’t believe me.”  
>  “That’s because everyone knows you, Mum.”  
>  Merlin automatically corrects anyone who gets a historical fact wrong and Harry’s always baffled by how Merlin knows so fucking much about really obscure events until he meets Merlin’s mum eventually and is like “THIS EXPLAINS EVERYTHING.” And Merlin’s mum loves Harry because he knows things about history and Merlin is like “you little shit” because everything Harry knows is stuff Merlin’s said and Harry’s teased him about knowing. 
> 
> Okay now I want to write that too.


End file.
